


Over the Fence

by not_a_prude



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, First Time, Fix-It, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, It's an experiment!, John is a Very Good Doctor, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mary is gone, Minor Injuries, Post-Season/Series 03, Resolved Sexual Tension, Shameless Smut, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Being an Idiot, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Smut, Top John Watson, Unresolved Sexual Tension, post-HLV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-05-18 04:47:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5898865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/not_a_prude/pseuds/not_a_prude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patching Sherlock up after their adventures is routine for Doctor John Watson, and the detective has never been anything but a nightmare of a patient. But one day, Sherlock is being even more recalcitrant than usual, and John makes an unexpected discovery...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_This is almost like old times,_ John thought as he sank into the back seat of the cab with a sigh.

His heart was still pounding from the run across the dark warehouse compound and the scramble across the high fence surrounding it, the quiet of the night rent apart by the barking of guard dogs and the angry shouts of the men patrolling the area. There had been a half dozen or so, more than they had expected, and too many for Sherlock and John to take on alone.

The detective and his blogger had beaten a hasty retreat, and taken a running jump at the fence that separated the guarded area from its inconspicuous surroundings to make their escape. Sherlock - perched precariously on top of the fence, which was decorated with a vicious-looking double row of razor-wire - had given his shorter friend a hand up, and they had tumbled down to the other side in a flurry of arms and legs and coattails. They hadn’t stopped running until they reached the main road, the sounds of their pursuers fading into the distance. A timely cab had appeared around the corner just then, which Sherlock had flagged down in his usual imperious manner.

The moment he was inside the cab, Sherlock had taken out his phone, punched a speed dial to Lestrade and immediately started firing off every last detail his ever-alert senses had gathered, and provided the faultless conclusion his ever-active mind had drawn.

Once again, John was left to give the cabbie their address. That done, the doctor tilted back his head and closed his eyes for a moment, feeling his own breath slow down to its usual rate, the movement of his chest pulling only gently now against the soft wool of his jumper.

He half-listened to Sherlock’s reiterations of all the data he had gathered concerning the whereabouts of the kidnapping victim they’d been trying to locate, the rapid-fire monologue fading to soothing white noise in his ears, a baritone patter of raindrops on a tin roof.

_Almost like old times._

Only “almost”, of course. Always “almost”, now there was always that emptiness that John had never felt _before._ And there was just so much _before_ now, wasn’t there? Before Sherlock had died. Before John had moved on. Not that he had moved on, not in his heart, any more than Sherlock had really died.

Yes, he and Sherlock were back together in 221B Baker Street. Yes, they were solving crimes together again like nothing had happened. But too much had happened to John in between. One lie too many, one betrayal too many, one disappointment too many. The fact that the child had turned out not to be his after all, had merely sealed the fate of the marriage that had been doomed from the start, if only he'd seen it. But for Sherlock, nothing had seemed to change. Most of the time, he was still the same as he had always been from the start. Sometimes, John had to wonder if his friend was a machine after all.

But here, in this moment, in this cab, high on adrenaline with the familiar rhythms of Sherlock’s deep voice in his ear, John could still feel the ghost of what once was, but what he was certain could never fully be again.

“Ah, congratulations!” Sherlock broke in on his thoughts, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He was still talking into his phone. “That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to tell you for five precious minutes now, Lestrade. You need to get moving _now_ if you don’t want the trail to grow cold. They’ll try to move him somewhere else as soon as they can, now they know they’ve been found out. Why are you still on the phone? You have what you need, go!”

He ended the call and huffed an impatient sigh.

“Should we turn back?” John suggested. “Keep watch til the police arrive, or something?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Oh, no point. I think the message has penetrated even Detective Inspector Lestrade’s thick skull by now.” The corners of his lips rose in a wry smile. “Let’s not be unkind. We can’t make him feel useless all the time. We've got to leave him something to do. And besides,” he added with a nod at John’s hands that rested on the doctor’s knees, “you probably want to get home and clean that up.”

“What?” John’s eyes went down to his hands. In the dim light inside the car, he could see that his knuckles were mottled with small specks of blood where the razor-wire on top of the fence had taken the topmost layer of his skin off. Maybe the cuts were too superficial to be felt at first, or maybe he’d been too pumped with adrenaline to notice them, but they were undeniably there, and threatening to smear a fairly new pair of jeans with blood. _Bugger_. How could he not have noticed?

“You look after your own wardrobe,” he snapped at his flatmate, half playfully, but half in irritation, too. “You ruined an eight hundred quid designer suit going over that fence. I heard the fabric rip.”

John had expected a witty rejoinder to that, something to do with his own modest height, maybe, something about needing Sherlock’s help to negotiate that fence at all; but there was nothing of the sort.

“So did I,“ was all Sherlock replied as he pulled his Belstaff tighter around his thin shoulders and turned his head to look out of the window. He remained in that position for the rest of the ride home, avoiding John’s eyes, but the constant drumming of his fingers against the inside of the car door betraying his tension. 

John spent the rest of the trip wondering what the hell he had done or said that would warrant Sherlock suddenly cold-shouldering him like that. Only a moment ago, the detective had still been flushed with excitement, hair wild and eyes bright, just like John himself. What had happened? Surely the man couldn’t be _that_ vain about his appearance as to mind a rip in his suit, incurred in a good cause? It didn’t even show, under that ridiculous big coat. Or did Sherlock mistrust Lestrade and the Yard’s abilities to bring the case to a satisfying conclusion after all? He had solved the mystery of the whereabouts of the kidnapped millionaire’s son with his usual combination of mind-blowing observational skills and deductive reasoning, and all that within less than three hours of Lestrade calling them in. He’d done his part, and done it brilliantly, what was there left to worry about?

John shrugged and looked out his own window. It had begun to rain and the drops streaked down the glass, each drip outlined with the dim yellow glow of the reflected streetlamps. As the cab turned onto Baker Street, John noticed that the drumming had stopped, and turned to see Sherlock pull his coat back over his leg.

“Sherlock, it’s just clothes.”

Sherlock’s fingers began to drum again.

The cab had barely pulled to a stop, when Sherlock pushed his way out of the cab and brusquely made his way across the threshold of 221 Baker Street, letting the door swing shut behind him and leaving John to pay the fare.

John sighed. _Some things would never change_ , he thought as he pulled out the last bills from his always thinly populated wallet. The adrenaline was ebbing out now, and his hands were stinging a bit. He’d need some tea.

John shut the front door, made his own way up the seventeen stairs and went straight into the kitchen. He put the kettle on and went through the cupboard for two clean mugs and the box of PG Tips. He hadn’t had time to go shopping in the past few days, so he abandoned any hope that there might be milk in the fridge,  and instead began to dab his fingers clean with a piece of kitchen roll. The cuts were shallow and had already stopped bleeding. They still smarted a little when he flexed his fingers, but he’d barely feel them by morning.

When the water boiled, John took off his jacket, hung it over one of the kitchen chairs, and took the two steaming mugs into the sitting room. He fully expected Sherlock to be ensconced either in his favourite armchair, or stretched out on the sofa. But the detective was standing by the right hand window, still in his coat and scarf, looking out into the dark night, his arms wrapped around himself. He was barely more than a black silhouette, and he didn’t turn around when John approached.

“Are you cold?” John asked, and switched on the reading lamp by his own chair. “I made tea, if you want any.” He put both mugs down within reach of their chairs. There was still no response from his flatmate. “I could build us a fire,” John continued, nodding at the cold and empty fireplace. “And order something for dinner. Any preferences? Maybe try the new Indian place on the corner of - ”

“Please, John,” Sherlock’s deep voice cut across him impatiently. “You know I don’t eat while I'm working, and besides, if you’re talking about the place called Taj Mahal, the curry they make is abominable and the owner uses one of those manipulated cash registers that automatically cheat the Crown of a considerable amount of VAT with every transaction. Hardly the sort of business I’d care to support.”

John let the rapid flow of words wash over him with a shrug, but then his brain, working backwards, stumbled over something. “You’re _not_ working now,” he pointed out.

Sherlock turned sharply back towards the room, and regarded his flatmate with his brows drawn together, the familiar deep horizontal crease appearing between his eyebrows. Then he suddenly let out a breath, and shrugged. “Right, I suppose I’m not.” He began to take off his scarf, then his coat. “Forget it.” There was a rustle of fabric as Sherlock dropped the Belstaff carelessly on the armrest of the sofa.

“Look,” John began. “We could have stayed. We can still go back. But really, Lestrade'll be fine. You gave him the information he needed, he can handle it now. He wouldn’t - “

“You’re right, John, it’s fine” Sherlock interrupted him with an indifferent wave of his hand. “I said forget it. I’m going to bed now, I’m tired.” He took a few rather stilted steps towards his room.

John frowned. He honestly couldn’t remember when Sherlock had last - or ever - admitted to being tired, even at times when he was practically asleep on his feet. There was something eminently wrong with his flatmate tonight. There was something odd in the way he moved, too, something stiff and artificial, with none of his natural smooth, feline grace to be seen now.

And then John had it. His eyes zoomed in on the evidence, and there it was, clearly visible now that the coat was off, to anyone who knew what to look for. What John the best friend hadn’t seen, Doctor Watson now saw immediately.

“Sherlock. You’re hurt.”

Sherlock stopped in his tracks, almost at the door.

“It’s fine.”

“You’re limping.”

“I’m not limping.”

“Fine. You’re trying to hide that you need to limp and are doing a piss poor job of it. Did you nick yourself on that fence?”

“It’s nothing, I just pulled a muscle putting my leg over.”

“I know pulled muscles, that’s not a pulled muscle. Let me take a look at it.”

“No.”

“Sherlock, I’m a doctor. Let me look at it.”

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest. “No.”

“Sherlock, either you let _me_ look at it or you’re spending the rest of the night in the nearest A &E.” John strode purposefully across the room and grabbed Sherlock’s arm in his hand, his scraped knuckles twinging slightly.

Sherlock, with a slow and deliberate motion, took John’s hand between his thumb and index finger and removed it from his arm with a hint of disdain. “Don’t be ridiculous. First of all, it’s unnecessary. Secondly, I’ve spent enough time in hospitals in the past few months for a lifetime. And thirdly, you’re in no position to make me.”

John stepped in closer and drew himself up to his full height. “Oh believe me, I am. I’ve carried men twice your weight across the Afghan desert. I can manhandle your skinny arse into a cab with no problems.” His crystal blue eyes flashed as they glared unwaveringly at Sherlock’s storm-coloured ones. He pointed over his shoulder, towards their armchairs on either side of the fireplace. “Over there, now.”

“Fine.” Sherlock growled, and much to John’s surprise, he turned on his heel and prowled back into the sitting room, flopping into his armchair with a considerable pout.

“You can be as stroppy as you like,” John announced, “but you’re not getting tetanus or ruining Mrs Hudson’s carpets with blood stains on my watch. I’m going to get my kit from the loo, and when I come back out you’ll have your trousers off and be prepared to be the best damn patient I’ve ever seen to in my life.”

John knew, as he turned to the bathroom to get the more-than-fully-stocked kit he’d always kept on hand since first meeting the risk-prone detective, that the latter request was an impossibility at best, but perhaps it might make the overgrown teenager he called a flatmate a bit more likely to follow his medical advice.

As soon as he returned to the sitting room, he knew that impossibility didn’t quite cover it, as Sherlock was still fully clothed and was now lounging with his ridiculously long legs draped over the arm of the chair, while his fingers plucked at the strings of his violin.

Enough was enough, John thought. This was downright insubordination. He dug down deep into his chest and barrelled out in his best Captain Watson voice. “Sherlock Holmes, you will put down that violin and take off your trousers immediately.”

Sherlock raised his head in surprise at John’s tone. John could see his eyes widen for a moment and the muscles of his pale throat work as he swallowed. But John stood his ground, and finally Sherlock got to his feet, replaced the violin in its case on the desk with loving care, and then turned back to face his flatmate. The detective’s back was rod straight and his head was held high, but there was just a hint of uncertainty in his gaze as his long fingers hovered hesitatingly over the button on his trousers.

John nodded impatiently. “Get on with it.”

Sherlock undid the button and zip of his trousers with one hand and let the fabric fall to ground around his ankles in a whisper of fine Italian wool. Then he took in a shallow breath and closed his eyes as John lowered himself on knees to get a better look at the ragged gash that marred the inside of Sherlock’s right thigh.

The doctor shook his head at what he saw. “Jesus, Sherlock, for someone so brilliant, you can be such an idiot. You’re lucky you didn’t nick your femoral artery and bleed to death. Now, move your knees apart a bit so I can - “

John raised his hand, as if to give the younger man’s knees a nudge in the right direction.

But the detective pulled back just in time to avoid the contact.  “Should you really be touching an open wound with those cuts on your hands?” he asked.

“Just taking a look, for now. Besides, I’ve got gloves in my kit.”

John unzipped the bag on the floor and reached into the pocket where he kept his stash of nitrile gloves. _Empty._ He looked up. “Sherlock? Where are my gloves?”

“Ah, yes.” A small blush crept up his flatmate’s face. “I forgot to mention that I had to borrow a few for an experiment that required the use of an elastic membrane.”

“There were a dozen pairs in there!”

“It was a very large experiment.” Sherlock reached for the trousers between his legs and moved to pull them back up. “I suppose this means we’re done now, yes?”

John’s hand dragged the fabric back to the ground. “Oh, I don’t think so.” He cleared his throat and continued in a lower voice. “I had myself tested for everything under the sun after I found out that Mary had been sleeping around. And Molly ran the full battery on _your_ blood after your most recent - “

“ - run-in with the needle,” Sherlock snapped. “Yes, thank you for reminding me of that particular humiliation.”

“So,” John continued firmly, “I’m clean, you’re clean. And you’re going to sit your arse down in that chair now and spread your legs properly so I can see if you need stitches.”

It looked like Sherlock was done with open resistance for the time being. He sank back down into his black leather chair with a sigh, and dutifully let his legs fall apart to reveal the full extent of his injury. There was nothing wanton in that gesture, nothing provocative at all. If anything, it was a slightly ridiculous sight, the famous great detective sitting there with his trousers down, the crumpled tails of his purple shirt only just covering his grey pants.

But all the same, for a moment, the sheer vulnerability of it made John's breath hitch. _Trust,_ John thought. That's what it looks like when you know you can _trust_ someone. The now familiar ache, the feeling of loss that had been his constant companion for the past few months, rose in his chest. But he pushed it back down and told himself to concentrate on the task at hand.

Little rivulets of blood had run down from the gash, smearing the inside of Sherlock's thigh and obscuring the true size of the actual wound. It extended inwards for an inch or two more than John had initially estimated, and there was still a small but steady trickle of blood seeping out of it.

John gently slipped his hand around Sherlock's right upper leg and raised it a little for a better access to the injury. Immediately, Sherlock tensed. John could feel the sudden ripple of hard muscle under the detective's smooth skin. He had expected it to be cold to his touch, but it was surprisingly warm.

“Hurts?” he asked, concerned.

“No.” Sherlock exhaled audibly, and forced a small smile. “Not much. Not your fault, at any rate.”

“Good.” John reached for a piece of gauze, moistened it with the antiseptic spray from his kit, and began wiping the skin around the wound clean. He worked with quick, practised movements, and in barely more than a minute, he could turn his attention to the main problem.

“Need your help now,” he told his silent flatmate – quiet for more than a minute now, John registered with amazement. “You’re lucky. We'll get away with just taping it, but I could use a hand. Try and bring the edges of the wound together with your fingers. Here, like this.” He rested the tips of his fingers gently on either side of the gaping gash, and began to push the flesh carefully closed.

A violent shudder went over Sherlock's body, making John lose his delicate hold.  
  
“Jesus, Sherlock!”

“Sorry.” Sherlock was talking to the ceiling, as if to avoid watching what was going on.

 _Who would believe that this man_ , John thought, _who had seen more dead bodies and ugly injuries in his line of work than many army doctors ever did, could be so squeamish when it came to a minor cut on himself?_

“Try again,” Sherlock grimaced. He sounded positively embarrassed now. “I'll keep still, I promise.”

“You better had, or else you'll have a -” John broke off just in time.  Professional pride aside, what did it matter if Sherlock got an ugly scar from this latest stunt of his or not? In a place where nobody would ever see it? And even more to the point, what concern was it of _Sherlock's_ whether John cared about this or not?

“I'll have a what?” Sherlock's voice broke in on his thoughts, very gently but so deep that John thought he felt its reverberations resonate within his own chest.

“Nothing,” he said quickly, and bent forward to continue with his task, conveniently hiding his expression from his flatmate.

On the second attempt, John felt a slight tremor under his fingers again, but Sherlock forced himself to keep still, as promised. But he managed it only at the price of the long fingers of both his hands gripping the armrests of his chair for dear life. Meaning, of course, that he was no help whatsoever.

John worked as best as he could, holding the roll of tape between his teeth while he ripped several long strips from it. As his fingers smoothed the tape across the wound, he was again surprised at how warm Sherlock's skin felt.

John glanced up at his friend's face and his breath caught in his throat. Sherlock had his head tilted back, exposing the column of his long white throat to John's view. His eyes were closed. The slight blush that John had taken for embarrassment earlier had intensified into a rosy flush that suffused his whole face, accentuating his sharp, high cheekbones. His plush lower lip was caught between his teeth, and he was drawing deep steadying breaths through his nose. Even as John watched, they seemed to speed up, each new breath causing the dark aubergine fabric of Sherlock's shirt to pull more tightly against his chest. John felt his own breath growing shallower to match pace.

Then he noticed that the corners of Sherlock’s mouth were twitching.

 _God,_ John thought, _is he ticklish, of all things?_ The thought of Sherlock squirming under someone’s fingers from a simple touch, begging them to stop - it wasn’t possible, was it? His mind lingered on the image a moment longer than it should, and his cock gave a disquieting twitch at the idea of Sherlock helpless under his hands.

“Finding this funny, are you?” he asked, trying to sound amused. “Don't worry, we're almost done.”

“No,” Sherlock's low voice came floating down to him, sounding husky and strangely constricted. “It's fine. It's, in fact - “

He broke off, making John look up at him again.

“- more than fine,” Sherlock finished then, and his eyes popped open to fix their aquamarine stare on John.

John swallowed, caught like a deer in the headlights under that piercing X-ray gaze he knew so well. Even though Sherlock was the one with his trousers off, John felt like the naked one. It turned him inside out. He was sure that the feelings he couldn’t even have named a moment ago must be written plainly on his face. All those hopes and fears that had been sleeping for years were bubbling up to the surface and threatening to burst out, all the stronger for having been trapped for so long.

He'd always pushed those feelings down, first for the sake of not crushing the beautiful budding flower of their friendship under their weight; then for the sake of keeping the promise he had made to Mary, when he’d thought Sherlock was gone from his life forever; and finally for the sake of his own sanity.

It had been too much then. It was still too much now, far too much. And kneeling between his flatmate’s thighs was not exactly the position from which he wanted to rethink just what exactly it was he had been feeling for him all this time.

Abruptly, John sat back on his heels, desperate to put some physical distance between them. He dropped the roll of tape back into his bag, zipped it up – his own hands were trembling now, why were they bloody _trembling?_ \- and quickly rose to his feet.

“Alright, done,” he said, and winced inwardly at how he'd grated the words out between clenched teeth. “I'll – I'll just put this away, then.” And grabbing his bag so hard that he felt his knuckles smart again, he left the room in the direction of the bathroom. He had to summon all the willpower at his disposal not to break into a run. 

 

\+ + +

 

He closed the bathroom door behind him, turned the key, let his doctor's bag drop on the floor and leant against the inside of the door, closing his eyes. He took a deep breath, then another, then another. On the fourth, at last, he could feel his racing heart begin to slow down. He was safe in here. He'd escaped that merciless deductive gaze that looked into people's souls and read them as easily and casually as other people read a newspaper. It was not too late to get things under control again. He had embarrassed himself much less than he might have, actually – he hadn't said or done anything stupid yet, after all. He just needed a few moments to calm down, and then he'd be able to face his flatmate again with an even, composed face. In fact, there was just one minor inconvenience that he needed to do away with, and then he'd be ready to go out again before Sherlock became suspicious of his friend's prolonged absence.

 _Very funny, Watson,_ he chided himself as he adjusted the front of his jeans in an attempt to alleviate the pressure a little. _You get a raging hard-on patching up your flatmate like you've done a dozen times before – though maybe never in as intimate a place as that before - and you call that a “minor inconvenience?”_

It was wrong, all wrong, and if John allowed it to ever happen again, it would become a massive problem.

He hadn't expected that urge to rise again so quickly – apparently, the disaster of his failed marriage had _not_ cured him of it once and for all – but _this_ was not the way of satisfying it.

 _Jesus_ , John thought, as he looked down at his traitorous body, _not my flatmate - my best friend, of all people_ – just because Sherlock was the first person that came to hand. And just because he was, quite frankly, the most _beautiful_ person John had ever – no. It was impossible to let Sherlock even so much as suspect that John's feelings for him included, and had always included  – no matter how badly John had always tried to deny it to himself, as well as to others – this particular aspect of human relationships.

If he tried to act on it, it would end in a horrible humiliation, and it would most certainly put an end to their friendship as well. The man who had pronounced himself to be “married to his work” on the very first night they had been out together on an adventure, the man who scoffed at the concept of romantic love and mutual physical attraction at every opportunity, would laugh in John's face if he ever made the mistake of letting those feelings show.

Well – time to take care of his immediate problem. A cold shower would be effective, but raise suspicion. But given just a little more time, surely he could just will the evidence of his confusion away again.

Almost unconsciously, John's hand wandered back down to the fly of his jeans. Maybe if he just opened the buttons for a moment, to reduce the friction... John took another deep breath. The tips of his fingers brushed against the hard bulge under the thick denim, light as butterflies.

“John.”

He froze.

The familiar voice was so close to John's ear that for a moment, he was sure that Sherlock was standing right behind him. Then John realised that he was. The doctor still had his back pressed against the closed bathroom door, but the detective was right on the other side of it, separated from his friend by no more than an inch of wood. Going by how the door had seemed to transport the rich tones of his baritone over to John's side, rather than muffling them, he must be leaning against it, too – maybe he had his hands against it, or even his forehead. _Jesus Christ._ John's hand jumped away from where it had been as if he'd just burned himself.

“John,” Sherlock said again, and there was definitely a pleading tone in it now. 

John didn't trust his voice with a reply.

“I'm sorry,” Sherlock continued. “I didn't mean - it was an experiment, nothing more - ”

The detective – his trousers back up, but his shirt still untucked - almost toppled head-first into the bathroom as John wrenched the door open so forcefully that it banged against the tiled wall. The two men were almost nose to nose in the narrow doorway, John bristling with anger, Sherlock looking crestfallen, the embodiment of a guilty conscience. It did nothing to mollify John's sudden burst of fury.

“A what?!” he heard himself shouting at the top of his voice, heedless of what Mrs. Hudson might have to say about it in the morning. “What are you getting at - studying ordinary human behaviour, are you? Measuring how long exactly it takes the average British male to get going again after a disappointment, or something?”

“I - “ Sherlock began, but he didn't get any further.

“Or are you just having fun rubbing it in,” John shouted on, even louder than before, “how I'm just another of those sad little instinct-driven, uncontrolled human beings that you always like to feel so superior to? Once and for all, I'm not a fucking _guinea pig,_ Sherlock!”

“John - “

But John wasn't listening. It all fell into place too perfectly. Sherlock's apparent reluctance to have his injury noticed and attended to; the very timely disappearance of John's protective gloves; Sherlock's strange reactions to John's touch on his skin. The man was a consummate actor, John knew that. It would have been child's play for him to come up with that perfect imitation of what excitement and arousal would look like in a person who was actually perceptible to such things. And John had fallen for it, as he always did. _Trust_ , he had thought, even, _what a laugh._ As if he could really afford to ever trust anyone in his life again. He should really have known better. For whatever sick reason, Sherlock had made a fool of him _again_. He'd probably sat down hard on that fence on purpose in the first place, too, to make sure he'd draw enough blood for his fucking _experiment_ to work at all. John felt his hands ball into fists. _The bastard_.

Sherlock was still standing there, his shoulders hunched, glancing guiltily up at John through  the fringe of hair that covered his forehead.  
  
“Yes,” he admitted, as if he'd read John's thoughts. “I did that on purpose. I did it all on purpose.”

John took a menacing step forward, crowding his flatmate out of the doorway and back into the narrow passage between the kitchen and Sherlock's bedroom. “Why?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I needed data. I - “

John snapped. With a snarl like a wild animal, he grabbed the other man by the lapels of his fine suit jacket and slammed him backwards into the wall.

“Data? You want data?” Lapels still firmly in his grasp, John pulled the taller man’s shoulders down and crushed his mouth against the detective’s. They collided painfully, and John felt rather than heard Sherlock gasp in wordless protest.

“How’s that for data?” he growled. “Or would you prefer more conclusive evidence?” John pushed forward again, his lips hot and angry against Sherlock’s unmoving mouth as he pressed his erection firmly against the other man’s thigh. At this, Sherlock’s mouth opened just enough to release a little whimper, and John took advantage of the gap and ran his tongue between those barely parted lips before pulling back abruptly **.** “There. Is that what you wanted? To know that I want you? QED, Sherlock. You’ve got your proof now. I hope you’re happy.”

John released his grip and watched the detective fall back against the wall. His breathing was ragged, but his eyes were fixed unwaveringly on John, their expression unreadable. John took a deep breath, and with as much dignity as he could muster, turned on his heel to go upstairs. 

“It wasn’t an experiment on you, John.”

“Right,” John said without stopping his trajectory toward the stairwell. “There’s no else in the flat, so nice try, but no luck.”

“I’m in the flat.” 

John stopped in his tracks. A flush crept up his neck. _Oh god, he had read it all wrong, hadn’t he?_ “You were experimenting on _yourself_?” John asked shakily, hoping it wasn’t true. Had he really just embarrassed himself with that idiotic display, when all Sherlock had been studying was the effects of razor wire on live human flesh?

“Yes, but I needed your help. I didn’t ask because I didn’t think you’d agree –“

John tried to hide his mortification under a veil of anger. “Of course I wouldn’t agree to you impaling yourself on a fence, Sherlock! How stupid was that? You’re lucky you didn’t hurt yourself a lot worse!”

“I knew that you’d help me, because you’re a doctor, that’s who you are, and I just needed to know what it felt like to - “

“It’s razor wire, you don’t need an experiment to tell you that it’s going to hurt!”

“No, what it felt like to - to be touched. There. By you.”

“What?” John didn’t understand. None of this was making any sense.

“I wanted it to be skin to skin,” Sherlock rushed on, as if to get out the words before John could cut him off again. “So I took the gloves away two weeks ago, but then we didn’t have any cases, and then they were all safe and dull. And when I saw the top of that fence, it provided the perfect opportunity. Especially when you didn’t see that there was a gate just five yards off.”

John walked slowly back toward his flatmate. “You made us climb over razor wire, so you could hurt yourself on purpose, so I would touch you to fix it up?” The words came out of his mouth in a logical order, but they still made no sense. Fortunately the confusion was keeping his anger at bay. ”Why?”

“I know you think I’m a machine, John, and I’ve not given you much reason to think otherwise. But I’m not.” Sherlock stepped closer and gently took the doctor’s index and middle fingers in his hand, placed them firmly against the pulse point on his neck, and held them there. John could feel the pulse racing under the soft, warm skin. “What was that you said earlier? Q – E – D.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I do feel things, John. I _want_ to feel things, sometimes. I wanted your hands on me, and it was the only way I could think of to make it happen.”

Sherlock was standing so close to him now and his pulse was still beating so fast under his fingers that it was making John’s brain fuzzy. “You want sex?”

“Not just sex, John. That can be easily obtained anywhere. I want more.” Sherlock unfolded the other fingers of John’s hand so they rested against his jaw. “I want _you_.”

John watched in fascination as his thumb drifted across the plush cupid’s bow of Sherlock’s mouth, and he heard the gentle sigh escape the younger man’s lips as if from a distance. Surely this was happening to someone else. It wasn’t possible that Sherlock was talking about him, that the great detective was grasping his fingers and breathing soft breaths on his hand. His gaze glided up Sherlock’s impossibly crafted face to his eyes that were aquamarine pools of openness and longing.

“Jesus,” John breathed. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“You got married.”

“ _You_ said you were married to your work!”

“Things change.”

John huffed out a single laugh at that. “So they do. _My_ married life’s been over for months. Why not say anything then, or before?”

“You were so insistent that you weren’t gay, always corrected everyone who suggested that we might have been a couple. What could I have said?”

John pulled his hand off the detective’s cheek. “ _You_ have no idea. When Harry came out - it was a nightmare. Mother cried for weeks, Dad threw bottles. I couldn’t - ”

Sherlock stepped back, smoothed down the front of his suit jacket and began to tuck in his shirt. “I’m sorry, John, I didn’t mean to - never mind. Forget this ever happened. It was a silly whim that I allowed to take hold, it’s under control now and you can trust that it will never happen again. I’ve always believed that acting on one’s impulses was unwise, and this incident has just proved - “

John’s sapphire eyes locked with his flatmate’s curiously pale ones, stopping him midsentence and freezing his motion.

“It’s proved you wrong.” John took a step forward, removed Sherlock’s hands from his shirt tails, then slid his own hands up the detective’s long, lean arms, until his hands were cradling either side of Sherlock’s face. He leaned in and pressed his lips gently against Sherlock’s.

Their first kiss, if you could call it that, had been aggressive and uncontrolled, fuelled by anger and frustration and embarrassment. An impulsive mistake, at best. This kiss was what it should have been like, John thought as he leaned in, fully aware of the leap he was taking. His lips were only the slightest bit parted, just enough to feel Sherlock’s staggered breath on them. He barely moved, simply savouring the sensation of closeness for a moment, before he realised Sherlock wasn’t moving either. He closed his mouth, catching just the tiniest bit of the detective’s bottom lip between his own, before he pulled back and opened his eyes.

“Is this okay?”

Sherlock nodded, too engrossed in what was happening to speak.

Encouraged, John pressed his kisses deeper, opening his lips to take in more of Sherlock’s exquisite mouth. He felt Sherlock begin to relax under his kisses and his fingers, and let his right hand drift down to rest on Sherlock’s hip while he slid his left hand to the back of Sherlock’s head, entwining his fingers in the tangle of silky dark curls.

Sherlock moaned again, leaving his mouth open this time. For the first time, John’s tongue brushed against his.

John’s erection had flagged somewhat since opening the bathroom door, but the feeling of his tongue against Sherlock’s, their hot breath mingling together and the low sounds coming out of Sherlock’s throat had brought it back to full attention, and demanding _more_.

Sherlock had placed his hands on John’s arms, gripping them tightly as if to anchor himself. They certainly weren’t moving southward anytime soon, and with John’s own hands fairly occupied holding his flatmate close, there was only one thing to be done about the situation further below.

John slid a knee between Sherlock’s thighs, taking care to not touch the injury he’d just taped over, and nudged the taller man’s legs apart just enough for him to straddle one. As Sherlock slid his tongue into John’s mouth, John pressed his hips against Sherlock’s leg for some much needed friction. He felt a bolt of lightning course through his body as his groin brushed against the firm erection he hadn’t known was hidden beneath that layer of fine wool.

“Oh god,” Sherlock groaned. “Do - do that again.” His blue-green eyes looked down at John, wide with pleading and desire.

John didn’t need to be asked twice. He pressed his mouth and his hips against the detective again, relishing the single words that were coming from Sherlock’s mouth, vibrating against his lips and pooling deep in his chest and groin.

“John - yes, more...”

Sherlock’s hips canted up, and he pressed himself more firmly against John with a sigh that made John's blood rush down to where it was needed. It made John feel almost light-headed, and he instinctively pulled back a few inches to draw breath. Sherlock immediately tensed. 

“Not good?“ he asked. The familiar crease between his eyebrows was back.

“No, no,“ John hastened to reassure him. “It's just -“ He grinned a little sheepishly. “If you keep this up, you’re going to make me come in my pants like some teenager.”

“Oh.“ Sherlock stopped his motion, as if he'd just been struck by a brilliant new thought. “Remove them, then?“

“What? Here?“

“No, of course not here.“ Sherlock was smiling now, a disquieting, half-innocent and half-knowing smile that John only knew too well. He'd seen it so often, he knew it meant that the detective was about to launch himself into something absolutely crazy, and he also knew it meant that whatever Sherlock was up to, John wouldn't be far behind.

A moment later, Sherlock proved him right. He looked down at John, his eyes twinkling, then leaned to whisper in his ear. “Take me to bed, John. I want you to take me to bed.”

John swallowed, his mouth suddenly gone dry. Their eyes met again, and John knew that he was sold, and there was no turning back now even if he'd wanted to. His tongue flicked across his upper lip. “Oh God yes.”

He couldn't quite remember, afterwards, how they had covered the last few steps into Sherlock's bedroom, Sherlock walking backwards, neither of them taking his hands off the other. When they were inside, a residue of common sense in John's brain told him that it would be a lot easier if they undressed while standing up. But right then, the back of Sherlock's knees hit the edge of the mattress, and he sank down on his bed, pulling John down on top of him. He spread his legs wide just in time for John to land between them rather than on the freshly bandaged wound.

Sherlock’s hands drifted down the doctor’s back, then crept beneath the waistband of John’s still too-tight jeans and began tugging at the double barrier of soft wool and the chequered flannel shirt that stood between them. When his fingers had finally found their way to the bare skin of John's lower back, they pulled John tightly against him again with small, circular massaging movements.

“Jesus,“ John gasped when he felt their bodies connect again. “Get them off _now._ “

Sherlock was only too happy to oblige. He was already pushing up John's jumper, and the shirt right with it, and a moment later, they both went over John's head and dropped onto the floor, exposing John's upper body. In the dim light of the small lamp on the bedside table, his tawny skin glowed like gold.

Sherlock let his gaze travel over it, drinking in the sight.

“My turn” John growled. He brought one of Sherlock's hands down onto the incredibly soft Egyptian cotton of the bedsheets, next to his head, and held it there, their fingers intertwining. With the other, he began unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock let his head fall back and closed his eyes. He arched his hips, seeking the contact they'd lost for a moment, and John chuckled.

“What?“ Sherlock moaned, unsatisfied as John lifted his hips out of reach.

“Just thinking what a show you made of resisting that, not half an hour ago.”

Sherlock flashed John a truly wicked grin. “You were very insistent, though. I quite liked you like that.“

“Oh, did you now?” John smiled and rolled his hips slowly, deliberately, giving Sherlock the friction he desired. This time, a veritable shudder went over the younger man's body in response.

It was a déjà-vu from that moment in the living room, but this time John knew it was real. The touch of colour on Sherlock's cheekbones, the slightly parted lips, full and yet delicate like a woman’s, the rise and fall of his chest, breathing against John's hand, intensely alive - all of that was real and a perfect end in itself, not an act, not a means to an end, as he had first thought. How could he ever have doubted it?

The urge to feel and see all of Sherlock, to run his hands over his warm body – man, not machine, every inch of it - to touch him, to breathe him in and to make him his own -  took hold of John with such unexpected vehemence that he began fumbling clumsily with the remaining few buttons.

They resisted his efforts so stubbornly that John briefly considered just sending them flying with a determined jerk of his wrist. But Sherlock’s wardrobe had suffered enough already tonight, and John did, he admitted, have a certain fondness for this particular shirt.

 _He's perfect,_ John mused when the younger man was finally rid of all the fabric that constituted his usual suit of armour. _How can anyone be so perfect?_ Almost hesitant to touch the body he was straddling, he leaned down and brushed his half-open lips across Sherlock's, then took the plump, warm skin between them. A soft moan escaped Sherlock in response. John licked very lightly at Sherlock’s upper lip, teasing the tip of his tongue over the little knot that formed its centre, again and again.

John felt the fingers of Sherlock's hand tighten in his hold. “Touch me, John,” he muttered, breaking their kiss. His velvety voice was low and husky. “I want to feel you. All of you. Everywhere.”

His other hand was already on the fly of John's jeans, and before John knew it, he was out of them, too. The heat that radiated from both their bodies moulded them together into one perfect entity, their limbs aligning themselves against each other as if of their own accord, golden skin against pearly white.

Sherlock wrapped his long legs around John's waist to keep him close, and both his hands came up to dig into John's sandy hair. “Please,” was all he said, and it was all he needed to say.

When John closed his fingers around Sherlock's long, elegant erection, the younger man let out a single, wordless groan that was equally delight and despair. It was like music in John's ears. He began moving his hand along its dusky length, and was immediately rewarded with more of those sounds, a whole concerto of them now, perfectly in tune with the rhythm John was giving him. He glanced up at Sherlock's face, which was all bright, unseeing eyes and moist lips now, his hair plastered to his forehead by the sheen of sweat that had broken out on it.

The same sense of unreality that had preceded their first real kiss took hold of John again. This couldn't be true, it couldn't be. _Me,_ John thought, bewildered, and him _,_ in bed together like it was the most natural thing in the world, all the haughtiness, all the remote, untouchable arrogance stripped off Sherlock together with his clothes. _Trust_ , it flashed across John's mind again. _And I thought him both incapable of it, and undeserving._ He swallowed hard. His throat suddenly felt constricted, and there was a strange burning behind his eyes.

“What's wrong?” he heard Sherlock whisper. The tips of those long fingers were ghosting across John's brow and down the side of his face in the most gentle of caresses. “Don't stop.”

John shook his head as if to clear it. “I'm sorry,” he whispered. “I – never mind.”

Sherlock pulled John down into a long, heavy kiss, proving that his tongue was no less clever in this field than it was when he was speaking. It wiped any traces of doubt or guilt from John's mind.

His confidence restored, John resumed his ministrations with one hand and sent his mouth on a voyage of discovery, southbound. His lips brushed down the side of Sherlock's long neck, stopping at the pulse point for a tiny little lick and suck, which Sherlock acknowledged with a happy sigh. From there he went on to the sharp collarbones, the delicate skin that covered them even more susceptible to the soft fluttering of John's tongue than he would have thought. John grinned inwardly as he continued his quest. So Sherlock _was_ ticklish after all.  
  
He could also be very loud, as John discovered when he reached the nipples.

“Oh my _God!"_  he gasped, the words fairly exploding out of him when John took one of them between his lips and began teasing it with the tip of his tongue. Sherlock arched his upper body into the touch, in a curve that couldn't possibly be comfortable. John slid his free hand under Sherlock's back for support, but diminished neither of his efforts with hands and lips. He felt Sherlock’s erection twitch and pulse in his hand, so hot and slick with sweat and precome by now that his hold on him threatened to slip. A shiver passed over him, then another. John released the nipple, which now stood out dark red and hard against the pale surrounding expanse of Sherlock's chest, a perfect mirror image of what John’s lips found when they continued their journey further below. He ran his tongue over the fine vertical line of hair that pointed the way, swirled it around Sherlock's belly button for a moment – eliciting, to his delight, another very breathless giggle – and finally arrived at his true destination.

It was almost too much, John could tell it almost as soon as he took Sherlock into the warm cavern of his mouth, closing his lips around the firm, already burning-hot flesh. Sherlock let out a whine, high-pitched and raw with pure need, bucking his hips so erratically that John had to hold them down with a firm hand on either side. Sherlock threw his head back, and no more than a few tentative licks and sucks later he was already thrashing like a fish on dry land, squirming under John's hands in utter helplessness. It was the most beautiful thing John had ever seen in his life. He felt himself twitch vigorously in response, his own neglected erection so hard now that it was almost painful. 

“John – John, _please_ \- “

Sherlock's hands twisted themselves into John's hair, and John realised, somewhat confused, that Sherlock was trying to push him away.

A little guiltily, John released him and drew back. “Sorry. Too much?”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed. “And no. I don't - “ He turned his head away, as if to avoid John's eyes.

“It's alright,” John soothed him, cupping Sherlock's face in his hand and turning it gently back towards him. “I know it can be a bit much to process, if you're not used to it. We can - “

 “No, John,” Sherlock corrected him quietly. “It's not too much. It's … not enough.” He held John's gaze this time. “I said I wanted to feel you everywhere. Remember?”

Again, John felt his mouth go dry. “You don’t mean - “

“Yes, I do.”

“But - “

“What?“

“It's – it's not that simple, Sherlock. It takes time and preparation and -“

“ - and the lubricant you'll find in the top drawer of the bedside cabinet,“ Sherlock concluded with a smile. “You know I like to experiment. It's all there.“

“Experiment?“ John shook his head, amused. “Most blokes just call that wanking, Sherlock.“

“It was more than just that, John.“ Sherlock actually blushed a little. “I was thinking of you, and I was trying to simulate -”

“Christ, _stop_ it.“ The images that were flashing through John's mind were enough to make him want to grasp himself and finish himself off straight away. Sherlock, alone on his bed, thinking of John, those long, clever musician’s fingers pushing up into his own -

“Sorry,“ he heard Sherlock say. “I – I shouldn't have said that. It's fine if you don't want -“

“Sherlock,“ John waited until Sherlock's eyes met his own again. “Tell me the truth, now. Did you _like_ it?“

 Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again wide. “Far too much, John.“

 “Oh God,” John groaned, his erection throbbing at the thought that it would get this chance. “Then what are we waiting for?“ He put a hand on Sherlock’s hip. “Roll over and I’ll get you ready.”

 Sherlock didn't move. “No.”

 “Oh. Right. of course, if you’re more comfortable doing it yourself - ” John was aware that he was lying a little. He'd have loved to do it, but seeing Sherlock touch himself in that way would be a more than acceptable consolation prize.

 “No, I do want it to be you. I want all of it to be you.”

 “Okay, then it’s easiest if you’re -”

 “I want to _see_ you, John.” Sherlock reached up and held John’s face in his hands. His voice had dropped an octave, and was almost a purr. “I want to see your face, I want to see what you look like when you're inside me and - “

 John groaned as he felt himself twitch again. “Right, I get the point,“ he cut Sherlock short, slightly embarrassed at how breathless he was sounding. “On your back then, feet flat on the bed _._ “

 John turned to reach for the lubricant in the bedside table. When he turned back, his breath caught at what he saw. He may have thought, back in the sitting room when he attended to Sherlock’s injury, that Sherlock could not look more open and vulnerable than he did then. But that was nothing compared to what he saw now. The image of Sherlock, fully nude and legs wide, hips propped up on a pillow, eyes closed and stroking himself ever so gently while he waited, was enough to almost send John over the edge all on its own.

The doctor leaned forward and placed a deep, open-mouthed kiss on those red and swollen lips. “Relax, now. I'm going to take good care of you.”

He could feel Sherlock's answering smile against his own lips, then began running another course of kisses down the detective’s body, his lips and breath ghosting across his neck and nipples and down his stomach. Then he drew back again, and trailed his thumb down the skin of Sherlock’s inner thigh, just past the place where the razor wire had so unceremoniously marred the detective's near-perfect flesh. The man had not an ounce of extra fat on his body, so John could feel the firm muscle just under the skin. If Sherlock’s skin was normally pale, here, where the sun never reached, it was pure alabaster. _This is not a man_ , John thought, _but an Elgin Marble come to life and walked out of the British Museum._

John placed a feather-light kiss on that sensitive crease where hip and leg met. Then he sat back on his heels and flicked open the cap of the lubricant. He poured a generous portion onto his palm, warming it with his touch. Then he coated his fingers and reached out towards that most intimate spot. “If anything is uncomfortable, let me know.”

“John. Stop talking and just get _on_ with it.“

“I just want to make sure - “

Sherlock grabbed John’s wrist, and pulled it the last inch or so forward. When the tips of John's fingers brushed against the tight pucker of flesh at his entrance, he took in a sharp hiss of air between his teeth. But he still held John's wrist firmly in his grip. “Go on.“

John began to circle the puckered flesh, first lightly, then with slightly more pressure, as Sherlock began to groan.

“Ah! That’s it.” 

John was amazed at how sensitive the skin there was. He felt the tight ring of muscle flutter and then begin to relax and open under his touch, and looked down just in time to see the tip of his finger slip past it and disappear from sight. They groaned in unison.

John had done hundreds of exams in his life, but this was so utterly different, it couldn’t possibly compare. The intimacy of it took his breath away. He watched Sherlock's face as the younger man moaned louder with each knuckle that went in, deeper and deeper. Sherlock had long forgone touching himself and was gripping the sheets tightly on his sides, willing his hips to remain in place. Still, they canted up wildly when John pulled his finger back with a slight twist, and began sliding it in and out to make more room.

“Two,“ he gasped, his pupils blown wide with desire. “Give me two, John. I need to feel you _soon_.”

John groaned, his own almost-forgotten erection aching at sound of Sherlock’s raw need. He pressed in with two staggered fingers, scissoring them apart, working the muscle open. He felt Sherlock's body grasp at them, drawing them in, begging for more. John's own body was crying out for completion now, rock-hard and leaking, desperate to fulfil what his fingers were promising.

“Sherlock, I don’t think I can wait any more.”

“Then don’t,” Sherlock growled.

John removed his fingers as quickly as comfort would allow and took himself in hand, lining himself up. When he looked down at his erection, its tip resting gently against Sherlock’s entrance, he smiled. He may not be a soldier anymore, but his body, simple and sturdy, had not forgotten how to stand at attention, and it wouldn’t fail him now.

He took a deep breath, and then pressed his way inside. Sherlock’s body shuddered under him, and John’s with it. He had never felt such tightness, such heat. He pushed himself slowly deeper, his body craving more with each new moan that passed Sherlock’s lips, until he had sunk in all the way to his root.

“Gorgeous,” he exhaled, releasing a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He savoured the sensation for a moment, enveloped in Sherlock’s warm body, knowing the detective must feel impossibly full right now.

Sherlock made an impatient little noise, and tried to push his hips up against John's.

“Be patient, you need to adjust.”

“I’m not made of glass, John,” Sherlock growled. “I won’t break. Now _move._ ”

In truth, John’s body was equally impatient and screaming out for motion, for friction, and John gave in, pulling out slowly and driving back in in a sure and steady rhythm. Sherlock’s back arched, the toes of his long feet curling against the mattress. 

“Ohhhh - god – yes - again - ”

John grinned, and kept thrusting, driven on by the desperate broken sounds of _that_ voice. But he didn't allow his brain to be overtaken by the animal urge to rut just yet. He’d accumulated years of knowledge in his medical practice after all, and he was going to put it to use in the best possible way. Never breaking their rhythm, John pulled Sherlock’s legs around his waist, lifting his lover's hips a little. Then he thrust in deeply, hoping he had calculated right --

“Oh Christ Jesus _fuck_ yes!”

John kept it up, relishing the string of incoherent profanities that fell from Sherlock’s lips as he found and brushed against that sweet spot, over and over again. The detective’s body was slick with sweat, and his chest heaved with the effort of drawing loud, ragged breaths through clenched teeth. He was coming apart before John's eyes, and it was more than John could bear.

“God, Sherlock. I can't - “

Sherlock groaned loudly. “Shut up and _fuck_ me, John! I’m so close, _so_ close!” Sherlock’s long fingers wrapped around himself again and began to pull vigorously. John closed his own hand over Sherlock's, and together they drove him the rest of the way, thrust by thrust, until the words coming out of his mouth stopped making any sense at all.

“Fuck, John, close, ah, _John_ \- “

John could feel his own release coiling inside him like a spring, desperate to get out, but with a super-human effort he held back until he felt Sherlock stiffen beneath him. Thick streaks of fluid were striping both of their stomachs as the muscles of Sherlock's body clenched and grasped at John inside him. But it was the sound of his name, a deep growl on those beautiful lips, that truly pushed John over the edge, and he felt himself moaning Sherlock’s own name as he began to pulse heavily inside him, Sherlock's still tight muscles drawing every last bit of his release out of him.

John collapsed forward, his legs suddenly useless, and rested his head against Sherlock’s chest.

They lay there, damp and intertwined for a long moment as John felt their breathing slowly deepen and match pace. Then he pushed himself up, and slowly pulled out.

A gentle exhale escaped Sherlock’s lips. His eyes were closed, and he looked more relaxed and content than John had seen him in a long time, if ever. “I felt you, John,” he whispered. “I felt you come inside me.” He opened his eyes. “I’ve wanted that for so long.”

John didn’t reply. He felt that he was supposed to say something meaningful, something significant to mark this new stage of their relationship, something that would do justice to the enormous step they’d just taken together. But his mind was blank.

Sherlock, however, didn’t seem to mind his silence at all. His eyes had already fluttered back shut.

“Good,” John said simply. And after a pause, when he thought he might just be able to move again, “I’ll get a flannel to clean up then.”

Sherlock made a soft grunt as John pushed himself off the bed and made his way to the bathroom. When he returned a few minutes later, a peaceful sight met his eyes. Sherlock lay sprawled limply across the bed, still covered in the traces of their unexpected encounter, the warm flush of arousal still suffusing his pale skin, his lips swollen from John’s kisses, his groin and stomach sticky from the results of John’s ministrations - and he was already deep asleep. He looked incredibly young like this, but he also looked at peace with himself and the world, in a way John would never have thought possible.

A warm wave of affection washed over John. He reached over and gently brushed a stray, damp curl off his sleeping lover’s face. _He looks like a fallen angel,_ John thought as he smoothed it down among its fellows, spread out all over the pillow like a dark halo. _And he’s mine._

Silently, he put the wet cloth away, then switched off the light and slipped back into bed. He nudged Sherlock over, careful not to put pressure on the healing injury. Then he nestled in behind him, wrapped his arm around his waist, pulled him close, and placed a soft kiss on his bare shoulder. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, his nostrils tingling with a bewildering combination of scents - Sherlock’s shampoo, sweat, the faintest trace of lavender from the bedsheets, and their lovemaking. It smelled like _home._

“Good night, Sherlock,” he whispered. “Just so you know, it was worth the wait. A hundred times over.”

 

\+ + +

 

The dim light of pre-dawn was filtering through the curtains when John awoke. He was lying flat on his back, and his eyes opened on an unfamiliar ceiling, but even more unusual was the touch of someone else’s fingers on his naked shoulder. He turned his head, and his eyes met Sherlock’s.

Memory returned. The soft touch of skin on skin brought it all back in a rush, everything that had happened last night. Here they were, both of them in bed together, both of them still naked, from friends to lovers in the course of a single night.

Sherlock was silent, as if not to break a spell, and his eyes moved back from John's face to where his warm hand rested against John’s left shoulder. He traced the fading sunburst of scar tissue with the tip of a long finger, a slight frown appearing on his face. Then he did speak after all.

“John, this…” he murmured. “What if - “

“Ssshh.” John reached out, and placed a finger against Sherlock’s lips. “This is us, and this is now. No more what ifs, Sherlock. Never again.”

He let his hand travel from Sherlock’s face to the back of his neck, and pulled him in for a kiss. They took their time, their tongues swirling lazily around each other in a slow dance until they had to draw breath again.

“Sherlock?”

“Mmh?”

“Thank you.”

Sherlock pulled back and propped himself up on his elbow, his eyebrows drawn together. “What for?”

“For helping me, last night.”

“With what?”

“Getting over the fence.”

John saw it even before he heard it. The corners of Sherlock’s mouth began twitching with amusement. It bubbled up inside him and then burst out of him with irresistible force. John felt the muscles of his face respond in kind, arranging themselves into a huge grin. A moment later, they were both shaking with helpless, glorious laughter, so hard that it made the bedsprings groan.

Mrs. Hudson, directly below them in No. 221A, shook her head and smiled indulgently.

 

 

 

The End.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What you've just read was an experiment. How many Johnlock tropes can one cram into a Johnlock fic and still have the story be taken seriously? Is it possible to write a Johnlock story that consists _entirely_ of tropes, with not a single original idea in it, and still be taken seriously?  
>  After more than 200 kudos at the time of adding this second chapter, the answer clearly is yes.  
> Here's the masterlist, in order of appearance.

  1. The story starts with the boys coming home from a case successfully solved; what the case was about doesn't matter in the least.
  2. No cabbie can resist when it's Sherlock flagging them down.
  3. John wears soft woollen jumpers.
  4. Sherlock has a "rich/velvety baritone voice".
  5. Mary is evil, so she and John divorced. The child wasn't John's. 
  6. Everything Sherlock owns is expensive, especially his clothes. 
  7. It's not Sherlock’s coat, it's "the Belstaff".
  8. John is always in need of money. 
  9. But John always pays the cabbie. 
  10. Seventeen stairs up to their flat.  
  11. John makes tea.
  12. John has to do all the shopping, especially the milk. 
  13. Sherlock would never eat anything if John didn't see to it that he does.
  14. Sherlock gets a horizontal crease between his eyebrows when he frowns.
  15. Sherlock never admits to being tired. 
  16. Sherlock moves like a cat.
  17. Sherlock would rather die than go to hospital when sick or injured.
  18. BAMF Doctor Watson takes no bullshit from people trying to evade medical care. 
  19. If they try, he orders them around in "his best Captain Watson voice".
  20. It turns Sherlock on like hell.  
  21. John keeps a fully stocked emergency kit in the bathroom to patch Sherlock up after cases.
  22. Sherlock is an "overgrown teenager".
  23. Sherlock steals and ruins John's things for his experiments. 
  24. The purple shirt of sex works as well on John as on anyone else.
  25. As does the column of Sherlock's long white throat.
  26. And the high cheekbones.
  27. And the plush cupid’s bow of his lips.
  28. Sherlock has storm-coloured/aquamarine/curiously pale/blue-green eyes.
  29. John has crystal-blue/sapphire eyes.
  30. John's always had a secret crush on Sherlock, but has never dared to act on it. 
  31. John has trust issues.
  32. Sherlock can deduce John’s feelings with a single piercing/X-ray look.
  33. "It’s an experiment!"
  34. Sherlock manipulates John into touching him because he’s afraid of what the answer would be if he asked him outright.
  35. John falls for it.
  36. They like pushing each other against the wall, with rough kisses.
  37. They're the detective/the doctor. The older man/the younger man. Or the taller man/the shorter man.
  38. John has repressed his bisexuality because Harry had such a hard time when she came out.
  39. John’s father was an abusive alcoholic.
  40. Sherlock’s curls feel silky. 
  41. Sherlock’s tongue is as clever when kissing as when he’s talking.
  42. Everyone’s in danger of "coming in their pants like teenagers".
  43. John licks his lips.
  44. And says "Oh God yes" to anything Sherlock suggests.
  45. No matter how badly injured, everyone’s always up for sex.
  46. John has golden/tawny skin.
  47. And sandy hair.
  48. Sherlock has incredibly soft sheets of the finest Egyptian cotton on his bed.
  49. Shirts need to be ripped off so impatiently that the buttons go flying.
  50. Their private anatomies match what we see on the outside: Sherlock is long and elegant, John is sturdy. 
  51. Kisses are "ghosted" up and down bodies.
  52. Sherlock’s pupils are "blown wide with desire". (John's never are, for some reason.)
  53. When about to have sex with Sherlock, John is overwhelmed for a moment by how incredible it is that HE’S allowed to do it.
  54. Sherlock’s been secretly trying to simulate what it would feel like to be topped by John.
  55. With his "long musician’s fingers".
  56. Sherlock IS a complete and utter bottom.
  57. But he's still as bossy in bed as in every other aspect of his life.
  58. John is a very careful and considerate top.
  59. Lube always happens to be at hand even though nobody could have expected that it might be needed.
  60. Sherlock’s voice "drops an octave".
  61. Sherlock’s body is all muscle and bone.  
  62. And alabaster skin.
  63. Orifices "flutter in expectation".
  64. There’s a lot of growling.
  65. And "tight heat".
  66. Feeling impossibly full feels incredibly good.
  67. John "releases a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding".
  68. Sherlock "isn’t made of glass".
  69. Sherlock comes completely apart.
  70. Doctor Watson knows exactly where to find someone’s prostate.  
  71. Given the right sort of sexual stimulation, Sherlock swears like a trooper.
  72. John takes care that Sherlock comes first.
  73. They come almost simultaneously.
  74. John comes from hearing Sherlock gasp his name.
  75. John goes to find a flannel to clean them up. (Never Sherlock, for some reason.)
  76. Post-climactic Sherlock looks "like a fallen angel".
  77. They’ve gone from platonic friendship to full-blown penetrative sex in less than an hour.
  78. John spoons Sherlock for sleeping.
  79. John likes to smell Sherlock’s hair (and can always smell his shampoo, no matter how long ago Sherlock washed his hair).
  80. Sherlock is obsessed with John’s scar.
  81. Mrs. Hudson approves of everything her boys do.




End file.
